Safe Word
by PandasInSpades
Summary: My version of an alternate ending to 'Pirates of the Third Reich' (6x15). Comfort comes in many forms. Grissom/Lady Heather


DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. All characters are property of their respective owners. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels.

A/N: So, I wrote this many months ago, and it has just been sitting around on my pewter gathering dust. It's a little out of my comfort range, due to the pairing, which I've never done before. I am pretty much a C/S shipper all the way, but I had this idea, and well...things happen. Hope you enjoy!

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Her body ceased its racking sobs, and she went limp in his arms, the coarse, desert dust grating against his skin as the wind whipped violently across the landscape. The elements themselves seemed to have inherited her pernicious rage, lashing out with careless disregard. He led her to his car, opening the door for her, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back as she stepped up into the vehicle. Maybe it was a muscle memory or a subconscious need to touch her, but he didn't think about it until it was too late. Either way, she didn't seem to mind - or she wasn't present enough to even register the contact.

She sat like a zombie next to him, a hollow, sunken in pallor enveloping her eerily still form, salty lines of furious tears drying upon her skin. He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. He drove slower than he usually did, sneaking glances at her out of the corner of his eye. She rested her forehead against the cool pane of the window, and he took some small comfort in the way her breath fogged up the glass with each shallow exhale. It was proof she was still alive.

When he pulled up to her house and parked the car, she didn't move. She didn't even blink. He waited, silently, staring at her front door like he had done many times before, but somehow, the building looked smaller now, as if it had lost the grandeur with which it once stood, as if it too felt the brutal anguish of loss. His phone rang at his side, a startling shrillness that broke the trance both of them were fixed in, and he turned the device off, not caring who was on the other end or what they had to say. As far as he was concerned, what was most important was the woman sitting next to him, gazing through the windshield with vacant eyes.

He exited the car, rounding its front to open the door and assist her with the step down. She followed his lead, matching his movements as he walked her to her house, and it was odd, their roles having switched, their once equal footing having decayed under the weight of what could have been. Though, he knew the fault of their demise rested mostly on his shoulders, wrapped tight around his neck like a scarf of shame, and he didn't have the courage to remove it.

The front door gave way easily with a turn of the knob. She hadn't bothered to lock it. The inside was dark, the only lights emanating from sconces placed in careful intervals on the walls at the top of the stairs. It was warm, despite the chill covering his bones, and it smelled the same as it always had - an enticing aroma of earthy and floral scents. Hard and soft. Sensual and exotic. Every detail of the house had been well thought out, exquisitely executed to provide anyone walking through the front door with an instant feeling of welcoming, a whisper of dark promises floating through the heady air, beckoning them further in. It was unnervingly quiet, though. In the rooms where muffled moans and stifled cries usually lived, there was only empty silence.

She stood next to him, her face expressionless, her shoulders hunched forward, so unlike her typically proper self that he wasn't sure what to do. This would generally be the part where she invited him in and offered him tea or slipped casually into a conversation about philosophy or ethics, but she did neither. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, ransacking his brain for the correct procedure to follow in situations like this, but there were no manuals for such instances, and he couldn't help but think that Catherine would know what to do or say. She was always better with people. He was awkward and full of memorized text, his feelings and emotions buried underneath the written word.

"Heather…" She met his gaze, but she didn't see him. She looked past him, like he wasn't there, like he was nothing more than a ghost haunting her hallways, rattling his chains to get her attention. He assumed he should leave, that her mute demeanor was an answer, but he wouldn't feel right if he didn't at least check the house to make sure no one had wandered in and decided to rob her blind. He turned to start his search when slender, white knuckled fingers gripped the flesh of his bicep.

"Grissom, I..." Her voice was raw. The words came out scratchy and broken, with a distant quality to them, like a phone call with bad reception, and he could tell by the shadow of a grimace that flickered across her face that speaking hurt her throat. He wanted to reach out to her, offer touch instead of stilted words, but his arms hung frozen at his sides, two useless appendages gathering dust.

"I was just going to-" She didn't let him finish. Finding his hand with cold fingers, she led him up the stairs, to the sanctuary of her bedroom, to its safety and familiarity, releasing her hold after the door lazed shut behind them. She shrugged off her jacket, letting it fall to the floor in a heap as she made her way to the bed, curling up close to the edge, her limbs all drawn in tight against her, as if she were trying to fold her body in on itself until she was nothing.

He took off his own jacket, folding it in half and placing it neatly on a velvet upholstered arm chair. He did the same with his shoes, tucking them under the chair and out of the way. It was a series of motions that were almost second nature to him. Whenever he had stayed here in the past, it had always been his chair, for his things. He liked the feel of the fabric, its sturdy construction, the way it sat in the corner yet still seemed to hold the room at attention, his eyes always wandering back to its throne like appearance. He had never asked, but he knew it was an antique, and when he found himself sleepless and full of questions without answers, he liked to imagine an old king or maybe a young, spirited prince, ruling from the comfort of its seat.

He hesitated only a moment before sinking into the bed with her, scooting closer to her form to wrap his arms around her waist and fit himself against her, their bodies two worn puzzle pieces sliding into place. Her lungs stuttered when he touched her, and he feared he had misread the cues, but after several agonizing seconds, she exhaled, pressing into him to feel his warmth covering as much of her as it could.

They laid in silence, the only noises emanating from the distant whir of cars outside the house and the soft tick of the second hand from a clock on the bureau. Like a metronome, it kept the beat, the steady rhythm marking their time together. She fell asleep quickly, her breathing growing steadily shallow and evening out as she drifted into restless dreaming.

He missed these moments, the slices of unfettered togetherness they shared here, the depths that they had carved out for themselves, in this room, in her bed. He loved the way she understood him, the way she could read his thoughts the moment he stepped foot in her presence, the way her eyes never judged him - not once. He was comfortable in her world, oddly soothed by the rawness of her life, the fact that she had no qualms about the openness of desire and depravity, of fetish and fear. She was the realest person in his own corner of the world, the one with the richest colors and the most vibrant hues, the one face that stood out among the others, the one soul he had connected with on a level that transcended bugs and blood.

She had always been a strong woman, a woman of high morals and deep rooted passions, a woman who carried herself with a sureness that made everything around her seem insignificant in comparison. He had always loved that about her. There was that word again - so casual, so seemingly fitting. How many times had he attached the word to her name? To her face? To the darkness of her eyes? How many times had he wished for the courage to tell her? He had opportunities. He had chances, but the syllables seemed to elude him when he needed them most, and he suspected she already knew.

She shook in his arms, a broken cry escaping her lips, and he could only guess the terrors she kept, the visions that clawed like rabid beasts behind her eyelids, the demons that turned dreams into nightmares. She had been robbed of her daughter, her kin, her own flesh. Zoe had been ripped from her world, stolen from her without remorse, and tortured by a monster wearing human skin. She had lost the largest part of herself, and he knew there would always be an emptiness living in her smile now and a hollowness in her stare. He knew she would never be quite the same enchanting woman he had met all those years ago.

He waited until the soft whimpers rippling through her throat calmed to close his eyes, and when he opened them later, she was no longer beside him. The spot where she had lain was cold and neat, as if she had smoothed out the sheets before absconding into the belly of the house, erasing the evidence that she had even been in his arms at all. He glanced at the clock, the thick, velvet drapes hiding any indication of time, and sat upright as his blurry vision adjusted to read the hour.

He had been there for almost a full twenty-four hours, and as much as he wanted to stay within the confines of the house, hidden from the outside world, alone with her, he knew he had to leave. He knew when he tapped the little green button on his phone, powering the device back to life, that it would be overflowing with missed calls and frantic text messages, angry voice mails and incessant pings and chirps to signify the attention everything and everyone else needed from him.

He sighed as he rose from the comfort of the silken sheets, missing their warmth the second his body relinquished their softness, and he slowly, carefully, put on his shoes, taking his time slipping his foot into their waiting mouths and tying the laces with lazy fingers. He unfolded his jacket, shrugging into its bulk, stretching out his arms to wriggle the garment closer to his body before stopping to stare at himself in the mirror above an armoire. He looked as tired as he felt, despite the long hours he had spent asleep, and he took a steadying breath as he opened the bedroom door and stepped foot into the hallway.

The soothing aroma of tea hugged his nostrils, and his stomach issued forth a pressing growl reminding him of the way bellies quivered in cartoons. He imagined the skin of his abdomen rippling and red lines waving in the air space around him, maybe some form of comical music playing in the background. He hoped that she would invite him to stay, sit down and share a cup with her, but he knew she wouldn't.

When he finally forced his unwilling limbs down the stairs to stand in the doorway to the kitchen, she wouldn't make eye contact, and it hurt him worse than if she had just ignored him altogether. To him, it was a gesture that sealed their absence of trust, or more accurately, her lack of faith in him.

"I assume you'll be leaving now?" She presented it as a question, but he knew it was the period at the end of their sentences, the finality of their time together.

"Yes. Uh, you'll have to go down to the station at some point. I'm guessing Mr. Wolfowitz will want to press charges this time." He didn't have to say it, but he wanted their back and forth to continue. He wanted to fill his ears with the soothing sound of her voice, to memorize the way she said every syllable, the way her words flowed so smoothly from between her dangerous lips, like the most elegant of dances.

"Detective Brass already called." He nodded, fiddling with his hands idly, his gaze shifting from her to the front entryway, unsure if he could take the last few steps, if he could shut the door and be okay with this being their last moment. She must have sensed his unease, because she stopped what she was doing, turning to face him at last.

"You needn't worry about me, Grissom. I'll be fine." He doubted her sentiment. He had never lost a daughter, or even had a daughter to lose, but he had seen his share of parents dangling on the edge of their child's death, their chests deflated, the lights extinguished in their eyes. None of them were Heather, though.

"How do you know?"

"Because I have to be." Her response was quick and firm, and this time, he didn't doubt her sureness. She would wake up tomorrow, the day after that, and for many months to come. She would bear her loss with as much dignity as she could muster and learn, however slowly, however painfully, to live without her daughter, to continue in a world that cared little for personal tragedy, and she would do it all without him.

There were no more words, no more looks, no more subtle gestures or hints of body language. There was nothing left for him in her corner of the universe. He left abruptly, awkwardly, just like he had entered, and he hoped that she could find someone to make her happy, someone who wouldn't be fearful of all that she had to give - someone who wouldn't say stop.


End file.
